


There on the Willows

by MercutioLives (orphan_account)



Category: Arthurian Mythology & Adaptations - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Male Character, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Gay Male Character, M/M, POV Second Person, Reincarnation, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-28
Updated: 2011-03-28
Packaged: 2017-10-17 08:05:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/MercutioLives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"On the willows, there, we hung up our lyres, for our captors required of us songs, and our tormentors, mirth." (Psalm 137:2)</p><p>Not every familiar face is a friendly one, and not every reunion brings happy memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There on the Willows

"You remember, don't you?" You're watching me carefully. Your regard is wary and you hold yourself as a deer ready to bolt from a hunter's arrow. What is it you're thinking of, I wonder, to give you such a mien as this? Seemingly against your better judgment, you lean in closer to me, so eager in spite of yourself to hear my reply. I shift to make myself more comfortable on the barstool and swirl the shot of bourbon twice before downing it and setting the glass down with a satisfied sigh. You clutch your beer, but don't drink; your eyes are fixed on me.

"Remember? You'll have to be more specific," I return after a goodly stretch of minutes. I throw you an innocent smile. Your face falls – how droll. "Because I remember lots of things. My memory is in proper working order, you know." Shifting, you worry your lip, draw breath. You have no idea how much I love this; seeing you squirm with uncertainty amuses me to no end. It's a kind of revenge, really, that hopeful look on your face. You take a tentative sip of your beer now, but your gaze never drops. The discomfort is plain as day on your features. You scratch your stubbled chin, bite your lip again, clear your throat. Then you whisper.

"Camelot." The single word drops like a stone from your mouth, and your eyes leave mine long enough to glance about, checking to see if anyone overheard. It's as if you're telling me a naughty secret. Really, it's very funny.

"I remember," I admit simply, "Lancelot." Your entire body relaxes and you down the rest of your stout in one long gulp.

"Good," you sigh, all relief and contentment now. It's almost disappointing, how comfortable you become now that you're certain. It's as though it doesn't matter who I am, you're that desperate. Perhaps you are. "I was afraid I was mistaken. But you haven't changed much, now that I look. You still smile like the world is yours." _Coward's smile,_ you called it back then. _Traitor's smile._

"Perhaps it is. It nearly was, once." I beckon to the bartender and order another shot. It disappears as quickly as the first, the burn slightly less now. I add before downing a third, "I haven't seen him." Your mouth twitches. You really had been hoping.

"So he's not...?"

"My father? No. If he's anywhere at all, he hasn't contacted me. Of course, that doesn't surprise me, seeing as I killed him." You flinch, and your question asks itself: how can I speak of such things so lightly? I nearly laugh, but stifle it with a fourth round of bourbon. I have more tact than that.

"I see. What of Gawaine?"

"Dead. Lung cancer, last June." I grimace, remembering. Though no longer related by blood, he was still a brother. You notice, and your face softens in sympathy that makes me want to hit you.

"I'm sorry. And Gareth?"

"Nothing. Gawaine was the only one." You shift and clear your throat again. Your gaze strays to the exit -- you don't want to be here anymore. As ever, you're pathetically easy to read. I mimic you and clear my throat; you look over, apologetic for your inattention. Like me, you haven't changed much. "Is that the only reason you're here? To ask after the others? Because, really, I'm not the best person for that. Or did you want something else?" We both know to what I'm referring: I know because I said it, you know because your face grows bright red under the dim light. This time, I do laugh, unafraid of being tactless.

"No, I just wondered if you'd heard from..."

"Gawaine couldn't say his name, either. Is it because you mourn him still? Or because I'm his murderer?" My voice drops to a hiss, and the bartender arches an eyebrow as he sets my fifth shot down in front of me. He decides not to ask, which is all the better for him. You swallow thickly, nervous, as I'd intended to make you.

"It's nothing like that," you insist, dropping your voice to match mine.

"Isn't it? Then why don't you say it? You can't say my name, either, _lover_." I smile my coward's smile and knock back shot number five, waiting. I'm not afraid to call upon my memories of times past, unlike Gawaine, who buried himself obsessively in the present up until the day he died. Unlike you. You're silent for a long time. The barstool squeaks as you turn slightly. I wait. With my sixth bourbon, I'm starting to feel a bit looser. You've had several beers by now, and I know that, if I wanted to, I could probably talk myself into your bed tonight. "Go on, Lancelot. Say my name. You were a knight once. Where's your courage?" This rattles you, as I knew it would. You never could stand having your knightly virtue questioned, especially not by one such as I.

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Then why won't you say it? Perhaps...you just need the right incentive," I whisper, leaning closer, my voice taking on a more suggestive quality, "It's been a long time, Lancelot. I wonder if you still remember me as well as you think."

"I'm not here for that. I'm not interested in you anymore." Another false insistence. I wonder if you know how transparent you really are.

"I think that bulge in your pants begs to differ. You know, I've often wondered who it is you think about when you're by yourself at night. Do you still think of Guinevere? Or do you think of...me? You say you're not interested, but I know for a fact that Guinevere never made you _scream_ like I did." You blush again, and my hand finds your thigh, tracing little circles against the fabric of your jeans. You push it away, but it returns, and you leave it be.

"We're not talking about this. I loved _Guinevere_." Yes, you loved her, which is why you've got that look in your eyes like you want to throw me down on the bar and ravish me right here. I ply you with an indulgent smile and gently squeeze your thigh.

"You could always pretend I'm her. You did before. Remember that night, when you called her name as you came inside me? 'Guin', you moaned, 'Oh, Guin.' Except you would never be so rough with her. Not your pretty, white flower. So you came to me, the stinking, black weed, whom you felt no scruples about using as you pleased." As I whisper to you, the tone of my voice gives what would normally be bitter words a lustful undertone. I _want_ you to use me, even if you call me by that whore's name. Your blue eyes are torn between hatred and desire. You despise me for slandering your virtuous Queen, but the old lust is putting up a fight as well. You remember that I came first, that you had bedded me long before you had ever decided to betray my father with his wife. I was only fifteen the first time, you twenty-four. I was hopeful and naïve, just like any other little boy coming to Camelot in hopes of becoming a knight of the King. Perhaps one might call what you did rape, but I never considered it such. I fell in love with you. "Come on, Lancelot. It'll be like old times. No one needs to know."

"Stop this. What we did, it was _wrong_ ," you assert through clenched teeth. I lean closer still; I can smell the beer on your breath, in your sweat. Just like before. "It's _still_ wrong."

"And sneaking around with the High King's wife? Was that not wrong as well?" I've got you now – the look on your face says as much – but I don't relax. I could never make sure of you until I had you in bed with me. You hesitate, vacillate. I can see the questions flicker through your pretty sky-blue eyes.

"...Yes," you whisper at last, your teeth finding your lower lip again. Gently, my hand moves from your leg to take your hand. It's hard and callused, as I remember, and still much larger than mine. My own hands have always been slender and pretty, like Gareth's – a gift from our lady mother that awarded neither of us any respect from our brothers-in-arms.

"King's wife or King's son, what difference does it make? I'm here. I've always been here. Guinevere is long gone." You don't protest this, nor do you protest when my mouth finds yours. Instead, you press harder, possessively, much to the dismay of the bartender – "Get a room, you fags." – just as you used to. For spite, I moan appreciatively as your tongue darts into my mouth, and the sound of disgust somewhere off to my right sparks a grin on my lips. I murmur against your mouth, "Let's go somewhere more private, Lancelot." You moan your assent, so I pay for my drinks and yours, and we leave, my hand wrapped around yours. You're mine tonight, and this time, I refuse to let you go to anyone else, be it Queen, knight, or whore.

My apartment is closer to the bar, and so that is where we end up, already groping at one another before we've even reached the bedroom. You've never been patient with sex, especially drunk, so by the time you've pinned me beneath you, we're both half-naked and panting. Grinding, kissing, biting, our bodies press together as you shove your hands between them to work my jeans down off of my hips, my underwear to follow. You take a moment to appreciate what you see, a low growl of approval rumbling in your throat. Your fingers find the base of my cock, combing through the dark curls of my pubic hair in a way that sends shiver-shocks of pleasure through my stomach. When your palm slides along the length of my erection, a dark moan ripples out of me. I'd nearly forgotten how wonderful those callused hands of yours felt against my skin. It's been far too long.

"Lancelot," I breathe, the syllables of your name matching perfectly with the rhythm of your stroking. You dip your head, mouth engulfing the head of my penis in time to avoid replying. Naturally, this doesn't escape my notice, but your tongue darts and swirls, and my mind is stripped of all thought for a beat or two as I grip the sheets and groan in long-awaited satisfaction. I've had others in the interim, of course – men and women alike – but you're a class all your own. You start to suck me, and the wet heat of your mouth is jarring. Clumsy with drink as you are, your teeth scrape and prod, but perverse as I am, your mistakes only serve to arouse me further. It is as it always was. Your mouth parts from me, and you whisper, barely audible but loud enough for me to hear. The pair of syllables fill me with ecstasy far beyond any your body could ever give me:

"Mordred."

You don't speak my name again the entire night, but once is enough. I've won at last – this was my vengeance, completed. Across the span of lifetimes, you've had the glory of your final victory, but now it's mine and you'll not have it from me again. As our bodies meet in ways long forgotten, even though yours eclipses mine that lies beneath, I know that I am in control. You are beholden to me now, as I once was to you. Every emotion, every pleasure-feeling, is mine to manipulate. I know you, and I understand clearly the guilt you keep buried beneath the layers of your psyche. You regret everything – bedding me, betraying me, betraying my father whose name you still will not say.

My father is dead.

I am your sovereign now.


End file.
